Much Too Cold
by sodsta
Summary: Draco longs for the warmth that he can no longer find.


You noticed the change straight away, though it was subtle at first. Little things he would do made you wonder if maybe this war had changed him for the worse. It started with the darkness, the way he would wander around the house turning out all the lights, complaining that they were hurting his eyes. You wondered then if maybe he needed to get his glasses changed. He would sit quietly in the corner for hours on end, staring absently out of the window into the inky night sky, and sometimes it scared you so much that you had to go and sit with him and hold his hand, just to make sure he was still warm.

The light became a stranger in your house after a while, an unwanted visitor, and Harry wasted no time in chasing it away if you ever made the mistake of leaving a light on or forgetting to close the curtains. The arguments you would have with him over it would leave you shaking and near tears and sometimes you actually thought he would hit you, but he never let it get that far. It didn't take you long to learn to put out the light.

Some nights, when you would sit with him, he would pull his hand away before you could touch it. Some nights, you would touch it and his skin would feel like ice, glowing an almost pale shade of blue as the moonlight covered and claimed him as it's own. He became distant and cold, and you wondered if maybe you should make him talk to someone. He had never been this cold with you before.

You noticed, soon after this, that he began to drink. It started with a measure of scotch a day, then as the weeks went by and he became colder and colder, the drinks increased and you wondered if maybe he was drinking to keep himself warm. Surely, no one could survive that cold. He would come to bed drunk and push you into the mattress before taking you roughly and falling asleep, slumped uncomfortably across your back. You found it hard to breathe those nights, and although he was sweating, he was still as unnaturally cold.

You weren't sure what was worse, the nights he forced sex upon you, or the nights that he didn't come to bed at all. You would find him some mornings, lying in puddle of vomit on the kitchen floor. Some nights you would wake to the sound of him screaming angrily up at the stars and find him naked, on his knees in the garden. He would cry those nights, and as you helped him back inside the house and found him some clean clothes, you would sometimes feel hot tears in your own eyes. Those were the only nights he ever felt warm to you and you held him tightly as he slept while some secret part of you prayed that he would never wake up.

He did, though, and he would always be cold. He would groan and stumble out of bed and find his way, in the darkness, down to the kitchen to find something for his hangover. That was usually the last you saw of him for a while, until the evening, when he would be back in his chair with a glass in his hand. This lasted for months.

You didn't sit by him anymore. You were afraid you would catch a chill, and the only time you spoke was when he spoke to you first. Sometimes, you stood in the doorway and watched as he drank, and you could see in his eyes the effect the alcohol was having on him. Sometimes when he ran out of scotch, he would go out, and you were never quite sure where it was he went. But you never questioned him.

You slept alone more and more frequently as the months passed, and it became less and less unusual to find him face down in the thrown up contents of his own stomach. Cleaning up his mess wasn't a chore anymore, but just something you had to do. It became habit, and if you had ever really stopped to think about that, it would have seemed sad.

He shouted a lot more now, too. His skin, which had once glowed with the warmth of summer, had faded to a dull grey and was now tinged with flecks of yellow. You knew he was unwell, and yet you could do nothing to him help, for he would never help himself. He was dependant on you, and as much as he hurt you, and neglected you and made you feel forgotten, he needed you.

On one of the very rare occasions that he was ever sober, you took the chance to sit with him again. You talked about the good times and relived some treasured moments. You loved him, and you _knew _that he still loved you. You saw him smile for the first time in months and when you took his hand then, he didn't pull it away. He was warm to the touch and his skin didn't seem quite so pale. The tears welled in your eyes and as you kissed him, you wondered if maybe he had changed. He made love to you that night, such sweet love, the like of which you'd never experienced before. He was so tender and so soft and when you had both finished, he held you in his arms and for the first time in almost eighteen months, you slept well.

He was gone when you woke the next morning, and it wasn't until gone nine in the evening that you heard the door slam. He was drunk again and you cried. You tried to talk to him, tried to tell him that this had to stop. You told him how happy you had been last night and asked him why he was doing this to himself. He hit you, then, and you were so shocked that the argument ended there.

He became more and more violent after that, lashing out whenever you so much as looked at him in a way he didn't like. You tried to avoid him whenever you could and when you couldn't, you just kept silent and hoped he wouldn't notice you. You continued to cook his dinner, and you continued to clean it up when he didn't eat it. He went out nearly every day now and some nights he didn't even come home at all. You didn't wait up to hear the door slam anymore. He wasn't coming home to _you_, anyway.

You took the opportunity one day, while he was out, to go shopping. You kept your eyes down and were careful to mind your own business. You'd heard about supermarket romances, but it wasn't until that day that you ever truly believed it. His name was Mark and you had coffee. You had lunch and dinner, and that night you had sex. And it was nice… it was more than nice. He made you feel beautiful and wanted. And before you left, he gave you his number and told you to call him. You did.

Harry was hardly around anymore, and when he was, he was either too drunk to speak, or unconscious. You saw a lot of Mark as the months passed and you made sure he knew everything about you. He told you to leave Harry and come and live with him, and you wanted to, but you said no. You couldn't leave Harry because Harry needed you too much. Mark always sighed, then and reluctantly agreed. You knew he wanted you, and you wanted him, too. In fact… you were falling in love with him.

You came home from Mark's one day to find Harry sitting on the bed. You weren't sure if he was drunk or not, but there was something in his eyes that told you to tread carefully. He asked you where you'd been and you made up some lie about having been out shopping. He saw through this straight away and asked you where your shopping was. You had no answer. There was a short silence before Harry stood up and walked over to you.

"Who's Mark?"

You froze, then cleared your throat and told him you didn't know a Mark. You could have actually collapsed when he pulled Mark's phone number from his pocket. You couldn't think of anything to say. He accused you of having an affair and all you could do was deny it and you were still denying it when he dragged you over to the bed and raped you. You cried again, and so did he as he hit you and called you a whore. He held you again as he slept.

You didn't see Mark again for weeks after that, but one day, while Harry was out, there was a knock at the door. It was Mark and as he took you in his arms you explained everything that had happened. He told you to leave and come away with him tonight, but you refused again, because Harry needed you. He left before nine and when Harry got home you were in the kitchen making dinner. You watched him as he ate then asked him if he loved you. He made no attempt to reply.

That night, you sat down with a pen and paper and wrote out a note. The question you had asked would have changed the outcome if it had been answered, but it hadn't and so you were leaving. You told Harry that you had always loved him and that there will always be a place for him in your heart, but you had to go. Your signature was smudged as a tear landed on the page and you blotted it with your shirt before leaving the note on the bed.

You hoped Harry would understand as you crept silently past the unconscious body slumped against the chair.

The air was much too cold.


End file.
